


go look at your eyes; they're full of moon

by radianceofthefuture



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radianceofthefuture/pseuds/radianceofthefuture
Summary: The woman sticking her head out the nearest door is probably around Paris’ age. Unlike Paris, though, she looks to be in excellent health, as if she actually has the time and willpower for a healthy sleep schedule and effective skincare regimen. Her dark hair is shampoo-commercial shiny, and her wide blue eyes are set in a face free from the visible detriments of fatigue and stress. And what eyes they are – the bluest Paris has seen in all her thirty-one years on this planet. It’s a blue that reminds her of childhood, of the sky over the Catskills during those rare, early summers when her parents were on good enough terms with one another to rent a cabin there for a family summer vacation. It’s a blue that recalls feelings of warmth and safety, of being young enough to not yet notice the storm roiling on the horizon.It’s a blue that scares the living crap out of Paris.(The one where Paris is a stressed-out lawyer, and Rory is the freelance writer that she just might be falling for)
Relationships: Paris Geller/Rory Gilmore
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. all romantics meet the same fate someday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first straight-up prose fiction that I've written in several months, and it's the first thing I've ever written in this fandom. I have read quite a lot of this pairing, though, and I love this show more than most things, so I hope I've done them justice and I hope you enjoy.

Paris Geller is having an exceptionally bad day.

And that’s saying something, because as a general rule, Paris is almost always in a nasty mood. It’s not her fault, really. She can’t be blamed for the incompetence of her interns, for the pigheadedness of people on the Internet, for the vapidity of modern Americans. And honestly, don’t even get her started on politics. Paris can’t help that she’s a passionate person. Always has been, always will be. Frankly, it’s only natural that that incredible, burning passion sometimes takes the form of rage. There’s a reason all of the secretaries at her firm – and most of the partners, for that matter – are utterly terrified of her. So when she classifies today as exceptionally bad, she’s not fucking around.

When the elevator doors finally open in the lobby of her building, she breathes a sigh of deep relief. In her head, she’s already composing the email that she will be sending to the super as soon as she reaches the comfort of her sofa and her chardonnay. After all, she can’t have been the only person to trip up on that damn crack in the tile. There are surely other residents of this building who were taken by surprise, and it’s entirely probable that they hobbled away from it with more damage than just a snapped high heel. It’s a safety hazard, is what it is.

Not to mention that now her favourite shoes are utterly ruined.

The doors ding, and Paris is on her floor. She exits the elevator with tremendous grace and aplomb, cursing as she gives up and finally kicks the patent leather pump off of her left foot. It hits the wall opposite the elevator door with a solid thump, then clatters to the floor. Paris curses again now that she’s getting a good look at it. There’s no fixing the damage; even if she does glue back on the three-inch heel that she’s clutching like a lifeline, she’ll never get them back to the way they were. Irrationally, infuriatingly, she feels her eyes start to well up. Paris wills herself to choke the tears back. She’s an empowered, educated modern woman, goddammit; she’s not about to stand in her hallway and cry about something as asinine as a broken shoe. She’s far too intelligent for that. But she’s had those shoes for six years, they’ve served her well, and this is all coming on top of a day that was already emotionally and mentally taxing. This is just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or heel, as it were.

Rather than cry, Paris thumps the wall with her fist and stoops to collect her poor, ruined pump. She takes off the other one, while she’s at it; may as well.

“Hey, is everything okay out here?”

The voice is soft, gentle. It comes from behind her. Unfortunately, this happens at the exact moment that Paris is balanced on one foot and pulling off her other, intact shoe, and the unexpected sound makes her stumble. She just barely manages to catch herself on the wall, finding her balance before spinning around to confront whomever has made the unfortunate choice to interact with her at a time like this.

The woman sticking her head out the nearest door is probably around Paris’ age. Unlike Paris, though, she looks to be in excellent health, as if she actually has the time and willpower for a healthy sleep schedule and effective skincare regimen. Her dark hair is shampoo-commercial shiny, and her wide blue eyes are set in a face free from the visible detriments of fatigue and stress. And what eyes they are – the bluest Paris has seen in all her thirty-one years on this planet. It’s a blue that reminds her of childhood, of the sky over the Catskills during those rare, early summers when her parents were on good enough terms with one another to rent a cabin there for a family summer vacation. It’s a blue that recalls feelings of warmth and safety, of being young enough to not yet notice the storm roiling on the horizon.

It’s a blue that scares the living crap out of Paris.

She realises that the woman is still speaking.

“…just concerned. It was quite a lot of noise, and it sounded like there could’ve been something violent going on. I had to check.”

Paris scrambles to collect herself. “No, nothing violent. I’m sorry to let down the rubberneckers, but there’s nothing to be seen here. No show. No street brawl to peer out at through the gap in your white crochet curtains. Just me and my lost dignity. Is that enough of a spectacle for you?”

The woman gapes at her. “I’m sorry, do you think I’m just being nosy?”

“Oh, good to know you picked up on my implication. I was doing my best to be subtle with it, so I’m glad it came across nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to express my concern about the alarming thumps I heard directly outside my door, but I suppose that’s overreaching. I guess I’ll just mind my own business next time I hear a potential crime taking place in front of my home. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, officer, I wish I could give you more information, but I wouldn’t want to infringe on the privacy of my neighbors when they’re being loud in shared spaces! I keep my crochet curtains pulled fully closed, thank you very much!’”

Paris gapes at her. Her anger, already stoked by the events of the day, is now in full flame. “Excuse me, Little Miss Neighborhood Watch, but to describe what you heard as ‘alarming thumps’ is hyperbolic to say the least. Contact with the wall was made exactly twice, and not with any great force, so please spare me that whole ‘neighborly concern’ schtick.”

The woman huffs. “Don’t call me that. My name is Rory. What the hell were you even doing that made so much noise? Because you may not think you were being loud but let me assure you that between the thumping and the cursing, you were being extremely loud.”

“What happened to not being nosy? At least bother to keep your story straight.”

“Fine, don’t tell me!” Rory snaps. “See if I ever try to be helpful and courteous again.”

With that, she withdraws her lovely head and slams her door shut. Paris can hear the latch being clicked into place, and then the lock being turned.

God. Yet another thing to ruin her day. She meets a beautiful woman, clearly intelligent, who actually lives near her and was just trying to be nice, and she immediately screws it up. If she’d put her foot any further into her mouth, she’d be shitting toenail clippings. And isn’t that a pleasant mental image.

Paris storms down the hall to her own apartment. This is officially the worst day she’s had in a long, long while. She puts on her pajamas and crashes into bed, not even caring that it’s only seven thirty and she hasn’t eaten dinner or brushed her teeth or sorted through all of those emails she was planning to look at tonight. Even calling the super to chew him out about the broken floor tile doesn’t make her feel better; it just makes her feel mean. After hanging up (“no, Tom, I won’t call you back. You’ll call me back, with an apology, once this is fixed. Good day to you, sir”), Paris burrows into her pillows. Stares across the room at the ruined shoe sitting on her shelf. Mocking her.

She rolls over with a huff. If only this day would end, already.

Finally, she drifts into an uneasy sleep. And if in dreams she’s taunted by the bluest eyes she’s ever seen, well. That’s nobody’s business but her own.


	2. roses and kisses and pretty men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimly, Paris registers a cup being set down in front of her. She reaches out for it without looking up from her phone, only to meet with a human arm instead of the tall cardstock cup that she’d been expecting.
> 
> “Hey, now,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “An introduction first might be nice. Or, you know, some eye contact.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Jess enters the picture, and Rory and Paris meet again.
> 
> I'm proud of myself for getting this up so quickly.

Paris is still in a foul mood by the next afternoon.

Stretching her neck, she resolves to take a breather. She’s been drafting this affidavit for five straight hours, after all. She may as well take her break now, never mind that it’s three forty-five. She needs her lunch hour. She needs to grab a coffee, stretch her legs, maybe check up on Madeline to make sure she’s doing that filing right. She’s a sweet enough girl, but in Paris’ mind, sweetness is not enough to make up for barely knowing the alphabet.

Ten minutes later, Paris is at the corner coffee shop, drumming her short nails on the counter and waiting for her Americano. As she waits, she idly scrolls through her emails. She may technically be on her break right now, but that isn’t going to stop her from working, not really.

Dimly, Paris registers a cup being set down in front of her. She reaches out for it without looking up from her phone, only for her fingers to curl around a human arm instead of the tall cardstock cup that she’d been expecting.

“Hey, now,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “An introduction first might be nice. Or, you know, some eye contact.”

Paris’ eyes snap up from her phone. Instead of a large, highly caffeinated beverage, her fingers are curled around the wrist of a man she does not know. He’s not terribly large, his figure on the slight side of average, but he’s solidly built, and even a woman as gay as Paris can tell that he’s good-looking. He’s got that specific brand of dark-eyed, brooding handsomeness that her old school friend Louise used to melt over, and Paris is instantly on the defensive.

“Excuse me? This may be difficult for you to wrap your head around, but not every woman you encounter is attracted to you. I, myself, am a lesbian, and I’ve grown very tired of male presumptuousness. I am not hitting on you. I am not interested in you, and that whole smoldering pretty boy thing has no effect on me. I’m just minding my own business and trying to get my coffee. Also, I’m in a very bad mood today, so I suggest that you back off.”

The guy’s thick eyebrows shoot up. “Hey, I didn’t mean any harm. It was a joke. Maybe making it to a stranger wasn’t my best idea, though, so I’m sorry for that. I promise I’m not trying to hit on you.”

Paris’ hackles come down, but only a little bit. “Well, joke or not, I don’t have the patience today for some wise-cracking delinquent, so if you could just hand over my Americano and get out of my way, that’d be just dandy.”

“Actually,” the guy says, raising up the to-go cup that he’d unfairly beaten Paris to, “this is my Americano.”

Paris frowns and looks at the cup more closely. Sure enough, although the order scrawled on the side is exactly the same as hers, the name is decidedly not. Scrawled across the side of the cup is the word JESS in giant, messy handwriting.

“Oh.”

“Hey, no harm, no foul, right?” The guy – Jess – says. “You weren’t trying to steal my coffee. At least, I have no reason to suspect that it was a deliberate act of attempted theft.”

He takes a sip of the drink. Paris grits her teeth. Her indignance has been replaced by a knot of cold, gut-shriveling embarrassment. It’s a feeling she got very used to in high school, and she doesn’t appreciate experiencing it again as a supposedly self-actualized adult.

The barista puts down another cup. Paris snatches it up, glad for the excuse to look away from Jess, and checks the name. PARIS, in big, messy letters.

“Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Jess says. “I’m sorry. I’ve kind of made an ass of myself, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” says Paris, “but so have I, a bit.”

Her stomach shrivels just a little bit further.

Jess smiles at her. “Well, maybe we can call it even, then. I’ll leave you alone to go about your business.”

He raises his coffee cup in a sort of salute, then turns around and walks out of the shop.

Paris watches him go, then shakes herself. She can’t keep letting weird interactions with strangers throw her off. Granted, this encounter did on a slightly better note than her argument with Rory last night, and Jess was certainly nowhere near as attractive as Rory, but Paris still has that little cold knot of embarrassment in her guts.

It stays for the rest of the day.

\--

The next day is Saturday, so instead of going into work at the firm, Paris sets up camp on her couch with her computer and a stack of case files. She’s getting some valuable work done when she hears an unholy crashing noise in the hallway outside of her door, followed by some very colourful language. She lays down her things and goes out to investigate.

Rory is kneeling in the middle of the hallway, trying to gather up a frankly alarming amount of garbage from the floor. Next to her is a white plastic garbage bag, fully equipped with pink close ties and a gaping hole in the bottom. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she looks ready to cry with frustration. All in all, it’s a rather pathetic picture.

She looks up at the sound of the door opening, and scowls at the sight of Paris. Paris pointedly ignores the way her heart constricts at this less-than-civil reception.

“Now who’s the nosy one?” spits Rory, using two fingers to pick up an apple core by its stem. “Craning your neck to spy through your embroidered calico curtains, right?”

“It was white crochet curtains, actually, but that was the gist of it, yes.”

“Well, are you just going to stand there and stare at me? The kind and neighborly thing to do would be to offer to help me out, you know. That’s what you would do if you were at all courteous.”

“Oh, spare me the Mr. Rogers routine. I was just looking to see what all the noise was.”

“Well, aren’t we hypocritical today! How the tables have turned.”

The absurdity of the situation strikes Paris right then, and she can’t help herself; she giggles. Rory looks up, big blue eyes wide and accusatory.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m sorry,” Paris says, in between peals of laughter. “No, really, I am, it’s not you, it’s just. The situation.”

Rory frowns at her. At least, Paris thinks it’s supposed to be a frown; it comes across as more of a pout.

“Here,” Paris says. “Hold on; I’ll be back in a second.”

Without waiting for an answer, Paris runs back into her apartment and straight to the kitchen. After rummaging under the sink, she finds what she’s looking for and goes back out to Rory.

“Here you go.”

Rory gingerly takes the proffered garbage bag. When she realises that there’s no trick, Paris is just being nice, she gives her a small smile.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You know,” Rory says, “I still don’t think I know your name.”

“It’s Paris.”

“Paris. Nice to meet you. I’m Rory.”

“I know; you told me the other night. Um.”

A blanket of awkwardness falls over the hall at the mention of their unpleasant first meeting.

“Yes. Well,” says Rory, dropping trash into the bag. “Thank you, Paris. Um. Have a nice rest of your day, I guess.”

“Yeah,” answers Paris. “Yeah, you too.”

She goes back into her apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.

God.

She’s so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always encouraged.

**Author's Note:**

> This work's title and all chapter titles are taken from ["The Last Time I Saw Richard"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4WVZncHaLo) by Joni Mitchell.
> 
> Kudos are much appreciated, and comments are welcome as long as they are kind and/or constructive. :)


End file.
